‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Mr Satō.’ Kaitarō leaned forward. ‘If we are going to undertake this case, there is a great deal we will need to know about you and your wife, and the majority of it will be highly personal.’
Satō remained silent.
‘Has your wife been unfaithful to you?’
‘No.’
‘She’s had no lovers, flirtations, close friendships?’
‘No.’
‘She doesn’t have any friends?’
‘She isn’t very interesting; it’s why I want to be rid of her.’
‘But you would like custody of your daughter?’
‘For the moment.’
Kaitarō looked away and Satō laughed. ‘I was told you were discreet,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t realise that meant squeamish.’
‘These are emotional matters,’ Kaitarō said, meeting his gaze. ‘We try to minimise the pain experienced by all parties, at least until the papers are signed. The most successful separations are the ones with the least resentment.’ He smiled almost imperceptibly at Satō, who narrowed his eyes; clearly he did not like to be challenged.
‘I’ll try another agency.’
Kaitarō shrugged, relieved in spite of himself as Satō rose to his feet, but Mia stopped him, bowing low.
‘We understand your impatience, sir,’ she explained, urging him to sit down once more. ‘These are big decisions and they cannot be taken lightly. We have to make sure that you really know what you want.’
‘I’m not getting a fucking abortion,’ Satō muttered. ‘I want to separate from my wife.’
‘Then let’s do it,’ Mia said with a cute lift of her eyebrow as she snapped open her notebook. ‘How much time do we have?’ she asked.
‘As long as you need,’ Satō replied. ‘But you have a reputation for efficiency?’
‘We do.’ Mia nodded. ‘I can’t stand long attachments,’ she said, winking at him.
Kaitarō took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘I want to be clear,’ Satō said. ‘Your boy here – is he up to it?’
Mia bowed. ‘Mr Nakamura is one of our best. Whatever you need, he will accomplish it.’
‘I don’t want any fuss.’
‘You are aiming for a private settlement?’ Mia asked.
Satō looked at her, the answer evident in his eyes. Slowly, he turned to face Kaitarō. ‘My wife has to want to leave our marriage and she has to be willing to sacrifice everything to do so. Can you do that? Can you make a woman love you?’
Kaitarō returned his look with an impassive stare until finally Satō laughed. ‘Let’s hope he’s better with the ladies.’
‘Do you have another photo of your wife?’ Kaitarō asked.
‘Why? Do you only take on the sexy prospects?’ Satō looked at Mia and they shared a small smile.
‘There will be a preliminary fee for research carried out before the assignment,’ Kaitarō said. ‘It would be good to have a picture of her in her everyday life.’
Satō smirked, something he would do continually in the meetings to come. ‘Don’t get too excited.’
‘Could we trouble you for some additional information now?’ Mia asked. ‘There are some remaining questions about her background and education, her hobbies, her relationship with your daughter. Perhaps you and I could go for a drink?’
Satō looked away. ‘Send them to my office. It won’t take long.’ He rose and walked to the door. Mia bowed, low and appreciative, and Satō looked over her bent head at Kaitarō. ‘I did bring another photo – to pique your interest,’ he said.
Later that day, Kaitarō stood before the window in his office. In front of him the streets of Shibuya glowed in the gathering dusk. In his hands was a picture of the woman he was being paid to seduce, the photograph Satō had brought him.
He leaned his shoulder against the glass and examined the print. He saw a woman with bobbed hair wearing a cardigan that was too big for her – the material enveloped her, framing her face. He looked at her posture, the angle of the shot. It was black and white, the frame precise, cropped close to her face and torso, with the room behind her out of focus. It was possibly a self-portrait. Kai was pondering this when he saw the tiny detail that confirmed his suspicions, for nestled in her palm, almost hidden by the folds of her cardigan, was the black bulb of an air balloon and a wire trailing out of the shot that would trigger the camera’s shutter. She was a photographer or she had been one, once.
Tilting the photograph towards the light, Kaitarō traced the line of her brow with his thumb. He thought of her name. Rina. She had large dark eyes framed by delicate lashes, but there was no joy in her expression, no exuberance, only the seriousness that he had noted before, the intensity with which she stared at the camera. Rina looked into the lens with concentration, perhaps even aggression, and there was something else there as well: the look of a life cut short.
Silver Halide
There was a time when she had been visible, Rina was sure of it. It wasn’t physical attention that she wanted or even romance; it was contact, for someone to see her, to prove that she was still there.
In the mornings she shopped for dinner and for the household. She wore knee-length dresses and a coat that she could wrap around herself. There was barely a stir in the air as she moved through Ebisu. She knew, had known for months now, that she could walk down a street and no heads would turn, no eyes would lift in recognition or curiosity. As her life began to unravel, fewer and fewer people saw her.
When she was a child it had been impossible not to notice Rina – she had been vibrant not just with youth but with a quiet confidence that was hers alone. She made friends easily. Tokyo spoke to her in its teahouses, bookshops, and on the streets. People watched her because she had something they wanted: her happiness.
Rina was lucky. Growing up, her desires had coincided with those of her family. She was close to her father and had followed him into the study of law. But, as her articles on photography began to be published and she was offered a place in her first shared exhibition, Rina had left her law degree to focus on new possibilities. She imagined another life.
This went well at first, as new ventures often do. Still, as one year turned into two, the question of how she would live and support herself remained, as did who would take over Yoshi’s legal practise. Her former classmates graduated and qualified; others married. She saw them become useful to their families, accepted. In the city she had once loved, each new street corner and junction confronted her with a reality she could not ignore. She saw it in the faces of those around her; even strangers seemed to judge her and to know that she could not survive on her own. Her father’s hurt, explosive at first, blossomed in silence. When he approached her about a match with Osamu Satō, a graduate of Tōdai and the son of a friend, the pressures surrounding her had suddenly eased. She had leapt at the respite. It was a weakness she would never forgive.